


Care Less

by HarmoniaChimera



Series: Somno Industries [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16774360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniaChimera/pseuds/HarmoniaChimera
Summary: Tony hosts an Avengers party, except he gets grossly drunk and everyone leaves, because they know how much of a shit he can be when he's like that. Except for Peter.





	Care Less

They're all gone.

Tony throws an empty bottle of champagne towards the bin, but he misses by whole miles, to no one's surprise. The glass shatters against the wall and he just shrugs and walks away. He'll have someone clean it up some other time. There's no one to get cut on it anyway, and he couldn't care less.

He grabs a couple more bottles of wine off the shelf and starts slowly walking up the stairs, fighting against the spinning world to put his feet where they're supposed to be. It's been five steps and it already feels like such a long way. Like he could break his neck just looking down. Not that it'd be such a bad thing.

"Mr. Stark?" he hears suddenly and his head whips around as he _does_ look down. Peter is standing at the bottom of the stairs with an expression of endless concern on his face, biting his lip as he sees what Tony's holding.

"The hell are you still doing here, kid?" Tony slurs out, leaning against the railing as the spinning gets worse and one of his feet gives in. It takes him a few uncoordinated tries to figure out how to stand straight again. Though why would anyone want to stand _straight_ , he will never know. He chuckles obtusely at his own thoughts, then waves down at Peter as he turns to finally get upstairs. "Just go home. I got this."

His foot slips again and he wobbles dangerously before Peter runs up to catch him and prop him up. "Um, Mr. Stark, sir," he says softly, “please don’t drink any more.”

Tony scoffs and spits over the railing. There’s a _thlop_ somewhere in the bar area. “Why are you even here,” he whines more than asks, but still lets Peter lead him into the bedroom and take the wine away, though not without a complaintive moan of protest.

“I felt bad,” Peter admits as he sets the bottles on the side table and sits Tony in the armchair. “About everyone leaving, I mean. Even Dr. Banner…”

Tony scoffs. “Banner could never handle me outside of a lab. Or the green meat-suit.” He looks at the wine again. It’s just sitting there, all tempting.

“But even Mr. Rhodey…” Peter looks really shaken. “I asked him why he’s giving up on you, and he said they’d all agreed that if you went off the wagon again, they weren’t gonna try anymore.” He slumps against the edge of the bed, across from Tony. “He told me I should leave, too, that there wasn’t any point.” His voice grows quieter. “And I wasn’t supposed to tell you all this.” Hell yeah he wasn’t supposed to. Of _course_ he wasn’t. None of them ever had the balls or the decency to say these sorts of things straight to his face. Except for Peter.

“He’s right, you know,” Tony says through the bile. “It is pretty pointless.”

Peter seems to notice how he stares at the wine so he reaches over to try to distract him. "It's not pointless, Mr. Stark," he replies, ever hopeful. "You're... Tony Stark. You can do anything you want, be anyone you want. I always believed that and that... Well, that gave me hope with a lot of things. Maybe you just need to believe that too."

Tony swallows hard, then sighs. That goddamn kid. “You should go home, Peter. May must be worried sick.”

“Nope,” Peter says cheerfully. “I texted her a while ago, said I might be late. She doesn’t like it, but she trusts me, and I think she doesn’t mind as long as she knows I’m here with you, safe. I, um, didn’t say anything to her about…” He takes a turn, changing the tactic. Tony almost laughs with how easy to read the kid is. “I just said I was helping with the clean-up. So, um, I’m here for the long haul, Mr. Stark.”

Tony stifles another scoff. Being here with his drunken ass is just about the last thing the kid needs. He should be home doing homework or something. But if there’s one thing he’s learned about Peter so far is that the kid very stubbornly refuses to give up, ever. He just never expected to be on the receiving end of that.

“I’ll go if you really want me to, Mr. Stark,” Peter says reluctantly, clearly unsettled by Tony’s silence. _Say yes, say yes!,_ screams a voice in his head, but it’s too far gone behind… everything else for Tony to reach it. “But I really don’t want to.” _Of course you don’t._ “I’d worry the entire night, thinking all sorts of things that could go wrong…” _Of course you would._ “My brain’s just kinda… busy like that.” Then quietly, Peter murmured, “You probably don't care about what I think… But I wish… I wish you'd stop drinking.”

Well, he definitely doesn’t appreciate the guilt-trip. Tony lets out a deep sigh, then jerks up, quickly snagging one of the bottles and taking an anxious sip. The wine stings delightfully in the back of his throat. Peter’s lips press together in a firm line and Tony gives a wry chuckle. “Go ahead, take it from me, then.”

“What-- I’m not going to use force on you, Mr. Stark,” Peter protests, a bit flustered. “You’re just… sick right now. But, I mean--”

“Hey.” Tony points somewhere in Peter’s direction with the bottle. “I am _not_ sick.” He takes one more sip to calm his addled mind. “I j’st… I j’st wan’ my mind to be _quiet_.”

Peter glances at the bottle with a healthy amount of doubt. “I feel like I understand but don’t understand…” He raises his gaze at Tony. “Do you mean like when there’s just so much going on in your head that you can’t think or process things very well, and everything just feels like a mess?”

“Yeah.” Tony’s malcontent expression turns into a full-blown scowl as he turns the bottle in his hands. “And this is the only thing that makes it go away.”

“Doesn’t it just make you feel even worse in the end, though?” Peter stares at the bottle, a small blush on his cheeks. “I mean, I’ve never really tried the stuff, but it doesn’t seem worth it. There has to be a better option.”

“There isn’t.” Tony snaps. “Y’think I haven’t tried? I tried everythin’! Th’drugs, th’meds, therapy, meetings… None of it works.”

Peter tries not to flinch, to no avail. “And how much of that was you trying just because someone made you?” His words are quiet and gentle, making Tony extra aware how abrasive he must sound. “You have to want it for yourself. I care about you, Mr. Stark… and I want you to get better, but none of that’s gonna matter if _you_ don’t wanna get better.”

Tony’s jaw clenches. “Well, then, I guess I don’t.” He takes another long sip and slumps in the chair, the bottle hanging from the side. “Maybe I don’t wan’ get better.” His teeth grind so much he can _hear_ them. “Maybe I’m ‘fraid.”

Peter sounds all but heartbroken when he says, “You’re the bravest person I know, sir… I can’t imagine you being afraid.”

For the first time since they’ve started talking, Tony looks up at Peter, thoroughly defeated by his kindness and compassion. If only that’s all it took. “I'm scar'd if I get better I won't be able to work an'more." He sighs. "The racing thoughts, the sleepless nights... I spend it all in the workshop. I mean..." He opens his hands helplessly. "I have these thoughts and I'm a genius. You have these thoughts and you're a genius." He sighs, taking another sip, gaze falling back to the floor as he mumbles, "Not a coincidence."

Peter settles back down on the bed. “But that’s… That’s correlation.” Peter brows scrunch up as he tries to follow Tony's train of thought. “I’m sorry, I just… I just want to understand. I want to help you.”

“What if it’s not, though?” Tony sighs tiredly. “Wha’ if I fix m’racin’ thoughts perm...anently, and then I can’t work an’more?” he just repeats, gaze set into distance.

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work like that, Mr. Stark.” Peter settles into his seat, like he’s preparing for a longer discussion. Tony scoffs at that. “Sorry. Just-- Okay. Looking at it from a scientific… uh, more scientific point of view: I, uh, I was always like this. Weren’t you? You built your first circuit board when you were four.” Tony blinks, honestly surprised Peter would even know such a detail, but then again, he probably mentioned it during their lab time together at some point. “So if you get better, wouldn’t it be just like getting back to how it was before?”

“I dunno.” Tony shrugs, turning the bottle in his hand. “What if I need ‘em? I’m scared to see ‘em gone.” His jaw clenches, and for a split second, he seems to be fighting against himself, but then he puts the bottle to his lips.

“No, Mr. Stark, _please_ …” Peter jumps up with nothing less than desperation, and that’s what ultimately stops Tony. He expected the kid to get angry, to shout, leave, maybe even hit him, but he didn’t expect him to beg. And he didn’t expect to _like_ it. “Please, _please_ don’t.”

“You sh’d really go home, Peter.” Tony waves his hand towards the door.

Peter’s expression tightens but there’s a determined glint in his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he says defiantly. “And… And unless you wanna get your suit, I don’t think you can make me.” Frankly, in the state he was in now, Tony wasn’t sure if he’d be able to even _with_ the suit. Not to mention he’s learned his lesson about piloting drunk years ago.

Peter just stands there with his arms folded, looking away. His entire body is rigid with worry, but his shoulders are slumped ever so slightly. He suddenly looks straight at Tony. “We’re alike, right? Except you drink to dampen it and I don--” He shrugs, voice trailing off into silence. “I mean… Mr Stark… If I get drunk and my thoughts don’t stop racing, will you accept you’re in the wrong and get some help?”

Tony blinks at him again, then squints. “Are you trying to test my hypothesis?”

Peter sniffles uncertainly. “I mean, that’s how the process goes, right? You said we were the same. If it doesn’t work on me, then that’d prove it’s not a solution. Right?”

“Uh-huh,” Tony scoffs. He doesn’t even care anymore. “And if it _does_ work?”

Peter’s silent for a while before he hesitantly answers, “Then I’ll never bother you about this again.” He looks at the bottle with something like fear or maybe apprehension.

“...Fine.” Tony hands it over to him, Peter holding it with shaky fingers as he takes a tentative sip, then another one. “I bet you won’t be able to get drunk anyway.”

But he does. It takes both the bottles of wine and then some bourbon Tony had stashed in his nightstand on top of that, but Peter does get tipsy, then dizzy, then has real trouble holding conversation, and then, when Tony comes back from the bathroom, he finds him passed out on his bed, legs hanging off the edge. He stares down at him, his mind still clouded with the heavy haze of alcohol, exhaustion, and a lifetime of bad decisions. What’s one more anyway?

He flips Peter around and pulls him down a little so that his hips rest on the very edge. After another moment, he climbs on top and places a few kisses down Peter’s ear and neck, making sure. Then he slips the boy’s shirt down a little bit and just to be absolutely certain, bites down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. The kid doesn’t even budge. He’s completely out.

Tony crawls further up the bed on all fours to get the lube from the nightstand, then sits on the edge, freeing his cock from its tight confines. With just a small drop, he starts getting himself ready, but between the adrenaline and alcohol, it doesn’t really work; not until he looks at the boy draped over the side of this bed and considers what he’s about to do. The forbidden fruit leaves a tangy taste in his mouth when he fumbles with the boy’s pants. He pauses, listening to the silence enveloping the penthouse. They’re all gone. Except for Peter. He’s not going anywhere.

Downstairs, it’s like a battlefield. Flute and whisky glasses scattered everywhere. Half-empty platters and serving bowls with things that should’ve probably been put in the fridge a long time ago. Shattered champagne bottle next to the bin. Wine stains on the carpet, on the wall. Light reflects softly, dancing off the green glass of the bottles discarded on the floor. The tiny remnants of the bourbon are still glistening on the very bottom and Tony can’t help but drink even those few drops before he throws that bottle away, too. He leans over Peter a little more, aligning himself with the tiny hole. He probably should’ve spread him open a little, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

He starts pushing and Peter’s skin gives in under the onslaught, the entire area dipping in before the boy’s cherry finally pops, giving in to the sheer pressure. Tony gasps as he starts rocking his hips back and forth, adding more lube with each thrust to make it easier to slip his full girth in. He could swear he’s harder than he’s ever been.

Peter lets out something like a weak gasp, and Tony pulls his hair slightly to make sure his nose isn’t buried in the sheets. Peter’s lips fall open then, and each thrust forces a small breath of air out of them, almost sounding like small moans of pleasure to Tony’s addled mind. Soon, though, his own grunts fill the air, suppressing everything else. Peter’s ass is tight like a vice around him, and even after a few minutes when the muscle loses all its tension, the boy’s insides wrap lovingly around him.

Tony leans forward and steadies himself on his arms, staring at Peter’s face as he fucks his pretty little ass, and it feels like everything’s right in the world again. It’s like they were _meant_ to fit together so snugly, like he’s living a dream so deeply hidden he wasn’t even aware of its existence until now. For the first time in a long while, he’s focused on one thing only: using Peter’s body to get himself off. And the fact he _can_ excites him to no end.

He slips his hands under Peter’s shirt, running his nails all over Peter’s back and cheeks and leaving red marks in his wake. He thrusts into him in an established rhythm, Peter’s hips limply bouncing against the mattress. God, it feels so good he can’t fucking stand it. He grabs Peter’s hips and starts pulling them to himself, ramming his dick even deeper in, fully engulfed in the warm embrace of the boy’s entrails. His boy’s. The realization he was literally about to cum in the kid he’s been mentoring for so long now, the kid he’s grown to care about, the kid he’s just marked as his own, hit him like a train. For one beautiful tranquil moment, everything was Peter. _His_ Peter.

Tony picks his head up and very slowly relaxes the spasming muscles. His hips are still bucking slightly to the forgone rhythm, even though there’s nothing else he can give him. He slips out, skin unpleasantly scraping against skin. Peter’s hole is still open, red, and angry, tiny trickle of white making its way down the seam of the boy’s scrotum and the length of his cock. Tony picks himself up, but it takes him an eternity to tear his gaze away from the enthralling view. He finally goes to get himself into the shower, leaving Peter like that and telling himself that he just couldn’t care less.

**Author's Note:**

> The above project hosted by a certain Discord server and a bunch of writers brought together by the same idea.


End file.
